102 Arda Vignettes
by VCalien2015
Summary: Short stories and one-shots involving various characters and time periods that will be posted as they come to me. My attempt to fill in some gaps left by Tolkien and get my unruly imagination in order!
1. Breaking Character - Nolofinwë & Fëanáro

I

Breaking Character

_Amidst the grand ruin of his war, Fëanáro's small acts of kindness went unnoticed by most. I noticed, however, and I was taught, to my surprise, that my half-brother's heart is not black in the least._

~ from the memoirs of Nolofinwë Arakáno

* * *

My youngest son is no orator and no linguist. He spends inordinate amounts of time studying and preparing, huddling in his desk chair at all hours of the night until his eyes are red and swollen and I am forced to carry him to bed. Yet still, each time he gives a recitation for the Lambengolmor, his voice fails him. Even in his native Quenya, his vowels are misplaced, his articulation sloppy, and his tone displeasing; in any other tongue, he can scarcely stumble through a verse of poetry. On this day, we are gathered in the opulent meeting-hall of the Lambengolmor to hear Arakáno recite a passage from Valarin scripture. Valarin is a naturally harsh and difficult language, and this makes my son's errors a thousand times worse.

Duplicates of this scenario played out on multiple prior occasions have taught me to go numb to pity and rage. Had they not, I would be on my feet by now and at the throats of those who are beginning to snicker behind their hands. Instead, I keep my head bowed and try to avoid the gaze of Fëanáro, who is seated at the adjudicators' table. He hates Valarin as it is, and this recitation will hardly improve things. No doubt his criticisms of Arakáno - and, by extension, of me - will be more terrible than ever.

Then, in spite of all my expectations, a strange thing happens.

I glance up momentarily and meet Fëanáro's brilliant grey eyes, yet there is neither amusement nor disdain in them. For a moment, impossible though it surely is, I almost believe I see a flicker of sympathy. Then my half-brother looks down again, and it is gone. I shake my head, telling myself firmly that it could not have been. Fëanáro delights in the mistakes of others; they make him seem brilliant by compare and inflate his ridiculously high opinion of himself further still.

Arakáno stumbles over a particularly difficult phrase, distracted by Fëanáro's stony gaze and the black countenance of his tutor, who looks ready to spit venom. He casts a terrified glance over his audience and then closes his mouth, bowing his head in resignation to his fate. He has failed again, and he knows it. His cheeks are aflame and his slumped shoulders are trembling with repressed tears; nothing he can say will aid him. The snickers grow louder, and I realize suddenly how very vulnerable he is, my littlest one. He may have royal status, and he may be presented in finely-brocaded robes and jeweled braids, but these things cannot guarantee him talent, or grace, or respect. They cannot protect him from public humiliation, or least of all, his own flaws.

Fëanáro raises a hand for silence, and I grow cold with dread at the thought of what he will say.

"I think we have heard quite enough," he intones gravely. "You are dismissed."

There is no mockery in his voice, I realize belatedly, scarcely daring to believe it. Arakáno had left himself open to the worst of criticisms, and Fëanáro had passed up the opportunity not only to humiliate my son, but to humiliate me for siring, to his eyes, a talentless fool.

Arakáno does not move, but stands in frozen silence. This is damning. His tutor, who cannot contain himself any longer, leaps to his feet and shouts to the entire hall exactly what he thinks of my son. His voice is high, bordering on hysterical, and the words are scalding:_ Pathetic, worthless, bitter disappointment_. Rage burns past my internal defenses with the swiftness of a forest fire ignited amongst dry timber, setting me to violent trembling. A red haze sweeps my mind clear of all but one furious thought: _How dare this worm speak to my son in such a manner!_ Suddenly, I find myself longing for a fight.

"The proud blood of Finwë is wasted on you!" the man screeches.

Fëanáro stands abruptly, striking the table with both hands. A ringing silence falls.

"The only disgrace to my father's noble lineage, sir, is you and your poisonous tongue," he says, in a voice of deadly calm. I have heard such a tone before, and nothing good ever follows. Fëanáro will shout and swear enough when something upsets him, but only when he is truly outraged will he turn cold, as he does now. "You are dismissed as well - from service to the royal family of the Noldor."

Arakáno's tutor goes stark white with a combination of fury and fear.

"I hardly think this fair!" he spits. Confronted with my half-brother's calm, cool anger, he is rapidly losing his nerve. "Prince Nolofinwë engaged me, and only he has the right to dismiss me!"

"I see that you have courage enough to shriek obscenities at a child, but not enough to accept the consequences of your own wrongs," says Fëanáro. His face is so smooth and cold that it could have been sculpted from ice. "You have publicly shamed your student, and I have publicly shamed you in return. It is perfectly fair. If you question my decision or my authority, you may take your case to the King, but I hardly think you will find favor with him, not with so many witnesses to testify as to the despicable things you said to Prince Arakáno. I promise you that if it comes to that, I shall give a statement also. I say to you again, sir, that you are dismissed. Your choice is to leave now with some shred of dignity intact, or to face the King's justice and lose all respect. Arakáno, come with me. You are not yet beyond hope."

My son does not move, but falls to his knees on the dais and buries his face in his hands. He looks very small indeed; his fine robes seem but a feeble attempt to hide how young and frail he is. Fëanáro goes and kneels beside him, offering him a hand. Arakáno flinches away, but with a few soft words from my half-brother, he is sobbing inconsolably on his savior's shoulder.

Fëanáro stands in silence, and carries him from the hall.

Whatever he tells my son is lost to me, for I do not follow them. Having failed to protect Arakáno from public humiliation, as any proper parent would have done, I do not have any right to comfort him now. I must leave that to Fëanáro, who proved himself in the space of a few moments a far better father than I will ever be, and had the uncharacteristic grace to say nothing about it.

After what has just happened, I trust his kindness towards my littlest one more than I trust my own.

* * *

**Quenya things:  
**

**Arakáno - **Argon, fifth and youngest child of Fingolfin

**Nolofinwë - **Fingolfin

**Fëanáro - **Fëanor

**Lambengolmor - **the school of linguists and loremasters founded by Fëanor in Tirion


	2. Fire and Ice (AU) - Nolofinwë & Fëanáro

**A/N: Operates on the premise that Fëanáro survives his duel with the Valaraukar and meets with Nolofinw****ë again post-Grinding Ice.  
**

* * *

II

Fire and Ice (AU)

_A close brush with death is a remarkable thing. It touches those who are but distantly involved as keenly as it does those at its epicenter. It alters priorities, wipes away old grievances, and forges new alliances. It make us equal. It reminds us who we are._

~ from the memoirs of Nolofinwë Arakáno

* * *

I arrive in the Fëanárian camp on the shores of Lake Mithrim freezing, starving, and fully expecting to find the entire host armed against me. I expect to have to fight and reprise bloody Alqualondë in all its horror. I expect to find my half-brother's people as full of rage and madness as they were when last I saw them. It does not trouble me. My sword may be all but glued to its sheath with salt and frost, but I can still draw it if need be, and my fury will give me the strength to fight.

The sight that greets me is all the more startling because of these expectations.

The camp seems to have taken on a mood similar to that which reigned during Atar's funeral. The chilly, clinging fog rolling in from the lake does not help matters. There is little activity to speak of. The few fires that burn are low and useless for the purpose of giving warmth. The people stand in small, silent huddles, their eyes dull and despondent. Even the sentries at the wooden gates do not seem to take any pride in their duties. Few will meet my gaze, and those who attempt it turn away again just as quickly, as though scalded.

I come across Curufinwë lingering listlessly outside a rough wooden house that is only slightly larger and slightly better built than the rest in the camp. I have never seen him look so downtrodden, so afraid and miserable. His normally immaculate raven hair is lank and unkempt, and there are dark shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes. If part of me is relieved to find him alive, it is not strong enough. My fury burns stronger, and Curufinwë's resemblance to his father makes it worse. _You owe him nothing_, it hisses to me. _He is not relieved to find that you live, I assure you!_

Curufinwë barely glances at me. He keeps his head bowed as one utterly shamed and defeated. It is as though he simply cannot bear to feel any more guilt. I know my appearance must disturb him, and for once I am glad of my ragged clothing, my all-too prominent bones, my sporadic shivers. Let them show this prideful fool the true horror of the Ice, the horror he helped condemn us to.

"Where is your father?" I demand. I offer no greeting, and I make no recognition of our kinship. He does not deserve it.

Curufinwë looks as though he would very much like to weep, and then, after swallowing hard several times, he gestures to the house behind us. I enter without another word to him, my hand tight about my ruined sword-hilt. The front room has no windows, and it is lit only by the dim orange glow of the brazier beside the bed. It is a dismal place, but it keeps out the worst of the wind, for which I am silently grateful: the wind was the true killer on the Helcaraxë, more so even than the cold. When I can still my own harsh breathing, I realize that the room is very quiet; indeed, it would be silent if not for the wheezing sounds of someone softly struggling to breathe. It is a sound I know well from my time on the Ice.

Unnerved, I take a step closer to the bed, but when the glow of the brazier illuminates who sleeps beneath the furs, I nearly recoil.

It is Fëanáro who lies prostrate in the bed, his face deathly white and coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He breathes as though there is a knife between his ribs, a combination of pained gasps and shivering exhales. His hands are heavily bandaged, and I suspect, from the state of him, that there must be more serious wounds at work that I cannot see. He tosses his head fitfully from side to side, and when I gather the composure to step closer, I can feel the fever-heat radiating from him.

I came to the Fëanárian camp a venomous snake trodden into the dirt one time too many, ready to bite my half-brother again and again and leave him in the throes of my agonizing poison. Seeing him now, helpless and near death as he clearly is, the serpent shrivels and dissolves into dust, and a different sort of rage takes its place. Something in me rebels at the sight of a mighty Noldorin prince laid so low. While the darkest part of me nods in satisfaction, hatred satiated by Fëanáro's suffering, the rest of me is appalled. There is something wrong about this, terribly wrong, for it is plainly the work of the enemy - the same Enemy who slew my father. In one moment, Fëanáro ceases to be my foe, and I recall who it is who deserves the fullest measure of my hate.

I whirl around and find Curufinwë standing behind me, his eyes too brilliant not to be filled with tears - but it cannot be. Fëanárions do not weep.

"Who did this?" I demand. "Who could do this?"

Curufinwë swallows hard several times before he can speak. It seems that the legends of the Valaraukar that terrified us as children are not legends. The demons themselves are very real, and they are responsible for Fëanáro's grave condition. He fought them, Curufinwë tells me, any pride he might have gained from the statement lost to grief: he fought eight of them. He had known he was dying by the time his sons reached him, and he was prepared. He bade them forego any attempt to save him, but his sons were of no mind to comply with this. Once the air of the mountain pass grew thin enough for Fëanáro to slip out of consciousness, they returned him to camp with all due haste. It is not known yet whether he will survive his foolish duel. He is still too weak and his fever too high to be certain. Even if he escapes with his life, he may never fully recover the use of his hands, or of his voice, which is believed to have been damaged by the hot, ash-filled air Fëanáro inhaled during the battle. The loss of either would be a fate worse than death for him, I know.

The part of me which spawned the serpent wants to spit upon my half-brother and walk away, but it is defeated by my fury towards the Enemy and my anxiety at the thought of creatures powerful enough to reduce the indomitable Fëanáro to this. I have not forgiven him - I know not if I ever will - but I do not hate him. He has rendered his blood for the blood of those he betrayed, and he may very well render his life, which is enough of a foundation on which to build a truce.

And aside from that, the sight of my once-mighty half-brother so wounded he can scarcely breathe has shaken me to the core. He has begun to mutter to himself breathlessly, deliriously. The words are indistinguishable, but their tone is plain: pain, sorrow, regret. This disturbs me more than anything I have yet seen. Fëanáro has always been able to conceal his pain. Once, when we were young and he was not nearly so practiced in his craft, I saw a chisel slip and slice open his hand. He did no more than turn very white. That he cannot now hide his suffering tells me something terrible about the degree of it.

"You ought to be seen by a healer," says Curufinwë in a brittle, strained voice. "I doubt you are in much better health than my father. There is no need for you to linger here."

It strikes me suddenly that Fëanáro must be very frightened, as frightened as I was on the Ice.

I owe Fëanáro no comfort, I know. No one comforted me on the long march to these shores.

Still, for reasons I cannot divine, I am compelled to stay by his side.

* * *

It is a long while ere I see Fëanáro again. I am occupied to the point of collapse with tending to my people and erecting housing and working out how our meager provisions will last the coming winter (I conclude that they will not). It is colder when I return to my half-brother's camp, and the leaves are turning shades of red and yellow and falling from the trees. Still no one dares to meet my gaze, and no one impedes my progress, though the mood in the encampment seems to have lightened a bit. Despair is no longer so heavy in the air. Yet the fact remains that no news has come to us of my half-brother's condition, and while I can certainly understand the Fëanárians' reluctance to communicate, for one reason or another their silence unnerves me.

I must know if he lives: not out of any brotherly love, no, but because there are many things I must say to him.

I reach the house I seek quickly enough, and no one bars my entrance. Upon entering, I find Fëanáro still deathly pale and more frail-looking than I had thought possible, but he is at least awake. I can no longer feel heat rolling off of him, which I take as a good omen.

We are alone, and it is painfully apparent. Fëanáro blinks slowly at me with dulled, half-lidded eyes, as though he believes me to be a figment of his dreams.

"You came," he says. His voice is ragged and scarcely audible, all its beauty stripped away. It is less than a ghost of the powerful, golden speech for which he was famed in Tirion.

I stamp out any sparks of pity. I owe him nothing.

"Aye," I say drily. "You led, and I followed, as I swore."

Fëanáro's brow furrows. "How? You had no ships..."

I do not dignify this with an answer, but continue to regard my half-brother with cold composure. It is but a few seconds ere his cracked lips part slightly in a sign of astonishment, as though he cannot himself believe the conclusion he has arrived at.

"Eru," he breathes. "You crossed it?"

My silence is confirmation enough for him. A very strange expression comes into his eyes, a mixture of disbelief and shame and...regret? No, surely not!

"I...never thought you would," says Fëanáro. Somehow he seems even wearier than he did but moments ago.

"Then you underestimated me," I say coldly, "as you have always done. Did you truly expect me to slink my way back to the Valar?"

"Or die in defiance of them."

"I should have died," I say, and shiver at the thought. "I nearly drowned, you know. It was only by chance that the ice broke beneath me so near to shore. It allowed me to reach warmer lands ere the chill could stop my heart. Had I been so unfortunate as to fall into those waters in the midst of the crossing, as many others did, well..." I pause and let Fëanáro absorb the implications of this. He keeps his weary gaze trained on mine, but something like regret flashes again across his eyes. "And so, here we are: two people who ought not to be alive, but are, against all the odds. What happens now?"

Fëanáro looks up at the ceiling. "What indeed, now that I have ruined everything?"

_An apology would be a start_, I think bitterly, but I say nothing.

"Do you hate me?" Fëanáro asks.

I am entirely unprepared for the question, logical though it is. The answer should be obvious, but somehow, it is not.

"I... Perhaps I did, not long ago," I say cautiously. "Now I am...I am not certain. I am not altogether pleased with you, to put it lightly."

Fëanáro closes his eyes, wincing and pressing a hand to his ribs as he shifts position. "I am none too pleased with myself, either," he says.

"Oh, no?" I truly am surprised.

Fëanáro shakes his head weakly. He seems to want nothing more than to disappear.

"I shall leave you," I say. "You ought to rest."

"Had you any rest on the Helcaraxë, Nolofinwë?"

_Why do you care? Has your brush with death truly changed you so? Do I dare to trust your sincerity, after what you have done?_

I give him no answer, but turn on my heel and make for the door. Fëanáro's voice follows me feebly: "Is there anything I may..."

The question falls into silence uncompleted, unanswered, and is gone.

* * *

The next time I see Fëanáro, he seems to have revived a great deal, though he is still pale and his voice is rather hoarse. He has a fire on his hearth now, for the chill in the air has been steadily deepening, and weak as he still is, his healer fears its effects. I am grateful for the warmth of the flames. My near-drowning on the Ice left me with a strange vulnerability to cold, and not even the warmest of the cloaks my people possess can keep me from shivering if I linger out of doors for too long.

Fëanáro notices this, of course. He notices all the damage the Ice has done to me, yet he no longer looks upon me with any sort of disdain or amusement. I do not dare to believe it, but it is almost as though he is feeling guilty.

"How are you feeling?" I ask him upon taking my usual seat beside his bed and extending my hands over the brazier for warmth.

He smiles ruefully. "Well enough, all things considered."

"You seem to have regained a bit of color, at any rate, and your voice is stronger."

"My hands are better as well. I could scarcely move them at all when first I woke, and my healer feared that the burns had...permanently damaged them." He is plainly unwilling to consider this, and I cannot blame him. "I am tired, mostly."

"I hear you," I say. _And I do not have the luxury of a sturdy wooden house to shield me from the winds_, I think bitterly._ My people sleep on the earth beneath the stars with campfires alone to warm them. We are not so well-fed as you and yours either, half-brother. You made sure of that._

I say none of this aloud, though Fëanáro seems to read my thoughts.

"There is nothing I can say, is there?" he begins helplessly. "Nothing would be enough. Nolofinwë, I…" He struggles with himself for a long moment, his lips parting now and then. At the last, he sighs, closes his eyes, and says very softly, "I am sorry."

I am so taken aback by this statement that I must blink several times ere I am convinced that I heard it correctly. Yet I do not doubt the sincerity of my half-brother's words. Fëanáro is not one for apologies, and for him to make one - aloud, no less - can only mean that he speaks from the heart. It does not change the fact that my people have suffered greatly and are suffering still because of him, but it does alter my opinion of him a great deal. How he came to regret his treachery, I do not know. I do not need to know. It is enough to hear that he is repentant. That is a foundation I can build upon. It makes Fëanáro a potential ally rather than an enemy, and allies are in short supply in this wild land.

"Thank you," I say, as coolly as I would have to a lord who complimented my performance in a debate. "That is a fine start. Have you the courage to tell my people the same?"

Fëanáro sighs heavily and averts his gaze. "No, but I must tell them, I know. It may be the only way to go about healing the divisions between us. I have seen the power of the Enemy, and if we are to stand a chance at defeating him, we must stand united. At the moment, however, I fear that your people would kill me on sight were I to enter their camp, regardless of my good intentions."

I quirk an eyebrow, thinking of some of Artanis' grimmer plans for her half-uncle.

"They might, if given the chance," I say.

"Perhaps I ought to make a peace offering ere I set foot in your camp. You must be in dire need of food, supplies, warm clothing."

"I doubt you have much to give. I am told that many of your provisions were lost when you burned the ships at Losgar."

Fëanáro fixes me with a disparaging glare. "Some, not many," he says. "I was a madman, Nolofinwë, not an idiot."

"Is there a difference?"

Fëanáro answers me with a roll of his eyes.

"My people will never accept charity from you," I go on, "but if you do not offer it, you will sink even lower in their estimation, and divisions between us will deepen. 'Tis a bit of a paradox, really."

"They will accept it when winter comes, and their children are starving," says Fëanáro.

It is a grim pronouncement, but a true one. I know of no father in my camp who would deny his children food or warmth for the sake of his pride, or of his hate. Come the snows of which the native Moriquendi have warned us, my people will grow desperate enough that they will accept provisions even from Fëanáro, their bitterest foe, and though they will never say so, they will be grateful.

"Perhaps I can sway them ere then," I say. "They do account me their king, after all."

This last is indeed meant to spite Fëanáro, but the sorrow and guilt that fills his eyes is more than I bargained for.

"I...I must speak to you on that point," he says, and for a moment, he looks positively ill, "but not today. I have not the courage, I confess. I will take counsel with my sons and see what we can offer your people. The cold is deepening, as I am sure you have noticed, and I would not like to delay and force you to endure another Helcaraxë." He glances at my sword, which still hangs at my waist (I cannot say why; Fëanáro is hardly in any condition to attack me), its hilt coated with rust and stained with salt. "I see that the Ice ruined your weapon, brother."

"I suppose it did, among other...more valuable things," I say, allowing him to work out the implications of this.

Momentary sorrow flickers across his face, though he keeps his eyes locked on mine. The fire in them burns softer now, and there is great weariness as well, but his gaze is no less penetrating than it once was.

"Then I shall forge you a new one as soon as I recover my strength," he says, managing a tight-lipped smile. "That is...assuming that I do recover my strength." He glances at his bandaged hands, and for a moment, he looks far younger and more vulnerable than he is.

"Do not say such things." My voice sounds fiercer than I had intended, more commanding. "You shall recover both, of course. You are strong, the strongest of us all."

"Am I?" Fëanáro murmurs, so softly that I know he did not mean for me to hear. His eyes flicker shut, masking the pain in them, and whether he sleeps or becomes lost in thought, I do not stay to learn.

It is only when I am halfway around the lake that I accept that, for one fleeting moment, I had cared for Fëanáro as I had when we were children. I had been just as fiercely defensive of him as in Tirion when the lords of court denounced him and insulted him in the streets.

It is not until I reach my camp that I realize that there in that house, Fëanáro had called me brother - not half-brother - for the first time in my memory.

* * *

Snow covers the ground when next I meet the Spirit of Fire. It is entirely unlike the snows of the Helcaraxë, which were treacherous, hiding patches of thin ice and gaping crevasses waiting to swallow us whole. It is cold, of course, but not unpleasantly so. Though it does set me shivering due to my new vulnerability, it lacks the knife-like quality of the snowfall on the Ice, which seemed to burn rather than freeze. It looks beautiful as well, and clean. The dark tree trunks and the boughs of evergreens make a stark contrast with the snow's whiteness, one that I find rather pleasing. Lake Mithrim itself is often frozen over of late, though a few have discovered that fish still live beneath the surface and can be caught for food.

On that subject, my people are far better fed than we had expected to be by this time. Fëanáro gave generously (perhaps more generously than he ought to have done), and my host, fearful for the young and weak among us, reluctantly accepted. I suspect that Fëanáro may have placed his people on a level of poverty equal to mine, and while it is only just that we suffer in equal measure, part of me cannot help but worry. I possess my late father's tendency to fuss over everyone, I know, as does Arafinwë.

Fëanáro is vastly improved when I reach his dwelling place. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in sturdy outerwear rather than nightclothes, and though his sword arm is in a sling and his hands are still bandaged, he looks much more himself. He insists upon getting some fresh air, though I fear the effect the cold will have upon his fragile health. More so, I know that four of his ribs were broken in his duel with the Valaraukar, and he received also a near-fatal sword wound to his chest. It is clear from the way his face turns white when he attempts to stand, and the way his hands compulsively clutch his sides, that he is not yet healed.

Some part of me hates to see him struggle so, though he deserves it, at least in part.

"Are you certain this is not too much for you?" I ask.

For the fourth time, he doubles over as he attempts to stand and sinks gingerly back to the edge of the bed. He glares at me with resentment clouded by pain.

"I ought to try to walk," he says through gritted teeth. "Besides, if I stay in this house any longer, I shall run mad - or mad_der_, as your people would say."

"Not without reason," I counter.

With some assistance, Fëanáro gets to his feet, and after I make him stand still long enough for me to settle a cloak around his shoulders, he laces his good arm through mine, and we set off. The cold, crisp breeze that greets us when we leave the house sends an involuntary shudder through Fëanáro's body, and I consider forcing him back inside. He draws a deep breath of winter air into his lungs, shivers again, and appears to regain his composure. He looks at me with eyes that are clearer than I have yet seen them and tells me, with a voice that cracks only a little, that he is perfectly fine. He is not, I know, but for a moment, I truly believe that I have my brother back - the brother of my childhood who would scarcely acknowledge me in public, but would carefully braid my hair before festivals and ensure I looked my best.

Fëanáro can walk but slowly, for he has been confined to his bed for a long while, and his limbs are weak. He inquires as to the well-being of my people and the state of relations between our houses, but it is plain that he is agitated despite the beautiful, wild scenery all around us. I had thought it would lift his spirits. He belongs here, in this untamed land of woods and lakes and mountains, more than he ever belonged in the glittering halls of Tirion. He was never one to be kept in a cage, my fiery brother.

His limited strength is spent all too quickly. His face is white and his hand is trembling as it clutches my arm by the time we reach a gnarled old pine on the shore. He utters no word of complaint, but I know that he is exhausted and in pain, and I cannot in good conscience let him carry on.

"Do you need to rest?" I ask, and he nods, teeth clenched. The tree's thick branches have allowed but a thin blanket of snow to dust the ground beneath it, and so I spread my cloak there and ease Fëanáro down onto it. He seems momentarily stunned by this act of kindness, and in truth, so am I.

"Will you not be cold?" he asks.

I will be, I know, but for his sake, I smile and shake my head. "Only a little. Stay close to me. Your healer will have my head if you catch your death after all the trouble she has taken in keeping you alive."

Fëanáro bows his head, and I know it is his way of showing his gratitude. It has never been an easy thing for him to express, but when he does, he means it deeply. His eyes are troubled as they search my face, gauging my mood, my willingness to acquiesce to whatever it is he has to say.

"Your hands seem much better today," I offer, attempting to soothe him.

He blinks as if startled from a dream and glances down at his fingers.

"Oh. I suppose so," he says quickly. "I ought not to fret so. I escaped the Valaraukar with my life, and that is a miracle in itself - one I do not deserve. I dare not ask for any more."

"You will heal," I say, "and you will lead us against the enemy with more cause than most."

"Nolofinwë, I must speak to you regarding that..."

"Surely by now even you must be convinced that I have no designs on your birthright to the throne."

"Oh, do you think I care anything for that anymore?"

"Then what-"

"Nolofinwë, please do not stop me while I have the nerve!"

"I am not stopping you!"

Fëanáro exhales forcefully and then presses a hand to his ribs, grimacing. He looks up at me with his eyes very bright indeed and a look of what may well be fear in his face.

"I wish to abdicate my crown to you."

* * *

I left the Fëanárian camp that morning the leader of a ragged host bereft of throne and title and all other symbols of status. As the sun sets over Lake Mithrim and dyes the water in hues of flame, I am a king-to-be, having been selected by Fëanáro because the greater part of the Noldor already name me their ruler, and because it is highly unlikely that they will bow to him or his sons. More than that, Fëanáro cannot bear to remain on the throne of the Noldor, not after his series of misdeeds. He tells me, in a voice so broken it frightens me, that he can hear Atar's voice at times, saying, "You are no king, Curufinwë. I am bitterly disappointed in you. I thought I taught you better." To this, Fëanáro can say only, "You did. I did not listen."

The idea does not frighten me. I have led before, and I shall lead again. The only difference is that now I shall have the title to support me, but titles mean little in this rugged wilderness.

I do pity Fëanáro, I realize, though I should not. Had he taken the throne under better circumstances, with Atar to guide him, history might have remembered him as the most celebrated, the most beloved Noldóran of any age. He would have embraced the challenges of the war on Moringotto and brought ruin unto our Enemy with devastating surety. As it is, when he took the crown, Atar was gone and the light was gone, and Fëanáro was never able to grieve properly, and it drove him mad. Though he is plainly back to his senses, regardless of how much good he does from this time forth, he may never be able to repair his damaged reputation. I fear that the scale on which his life's worth is weighed, in the minds of the generations, will tip so heavily towards his crimes that his accomplishments will be forgotten. He will be forever remembered as a rebel, as a kinslayer, as a madman, and not as the brilliant creator and devoted father of seven that I know he still is.

Even to me, having directly suffered from his misdeeds, this is terribly unfair.

I know not why he feels he can trust me with the crown. He never did before. His brush with death has changed him a great deal. Something frightened him deeply when he was forced to look into the abyss beyond this life, and he has never recovered. He seems diminished, somehow. The inferno that once raged within him has been reduced to glowing embers like those in his brazier, still hot and still living, but lacking in power. I suspect it will be a long while ere he has the heart to capture an entire people with his words as he did in Tirion, or to lead an attack so devastating that its very brutality is beautiful.

I find myself hoping that he recovers more of his old spirit. There is something very wrong in seeing my powerful half-brother so meek and quiet. Guilt does not suit him, either. Though I do appreciate his apology in regards to the treachery of the Ice, I would almost prefer to have his pride. That would be more natural for him, and though it would infuriate me, it would reassure me at once that in spite of it all, some things have not changed. As it is, the Enemy frightens me all the more, for if he has power enough to cow the Spirit of Fire, the rest of us may stand no chance.

It is strange to have Fëanáro sitting so close to me, and willingly at that. Save for a brief period in my childhood, he has never shown me any sort of affection. I know that he is showing me nothing of the sort now; he is merely attempting to keep warm, but still...I can imagine. I can imagine that it is not cold and dark, and that we are not sitting on the banks of a frozen lake but beside the lotus pond in the palace gardens, and that we are both exhausted from a day's adventures and Atar is calling us in for bed. I can imagine that we are carefree children rather than leaders burdened with impossible tasks. I can imagine that the only divisions that exist between our people are petty ones with regard to fashion and changing language patterns.

I do not want to be king. What I want is to fall asleep and wake again to find that the rebellion has been naught but a nightmare. Yet I will be king, for the sake of our people. I can only pray that I will make Atar proud.

Having finally made his most difficult request, Fëanáro has reached a semblance of peace. Exhausted, slumber takes him, and in his sleep his head drops onto my shoulder. I do nothing to change this. The treachery between us has only begun to be laid to rest, but for the moment, I am content to sit beside Fëanáro and guard him as I swore I would when first I heard the vicious rumors that he had killed his mother. I swore to follow where he led, and so I shall, though in name, at last, I shall be the leader now.

Offering a prayer to the Allfather, I tuck an arm about Fëanáro and close my eyes. Tomorrow will bring all sorts of new challenges, for surely Fëanáro's sons will be furious when they find that their father has passed his crown to me rather than to them. I will face tomorrow when it comes.

For now, at least, some things are as they should be.

* * *

**A/N: Fëanor and Fingolfin refer to each other using their Quenya names despite being in Beleriand for two reasons, the first being that they're speaking privately and there's no need to use Sindarin. The second is that both of them are still getting comfortable with Sindarin at this point, and they've been more focused on learning the phrases necessary for communication than they have been on translating their own names. **

**Translation things:  
**

**Fëanáro - **Fëanor

**Nolofinwë **\- Fingolfin

**Curufinwë ** \- Curufin, fifth son of Fëanor. Also appears in this story Fëanor's father-name.

**Artanis** \- Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin

**Valaraukar **\- plural of "Valarauko," meaning "Balrog"

**Atar **\- Quenya word for "father"

**Nold****óran **\- the title given to the King of the Noldor, meaning exactly that

**Moringotto **\- an ancient form of the name "Morgoth," given to the Dark Lord by Fëanor


End file.
